


red hair (i wish i had the courage)

by aurla0



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Feels, I Don't Even Know, M/M, gratuitous description, oh the pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurla0/pseuds/aurla0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He loves the flashing brilliance of Misaki’s hair, each copper-wire strand glinting warm gold in the sunlight. He loves the vibrant reds and oranges of it, the way light sets Misaki aflame, each and every strand blazing with its own fiery light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	red hair (i wish i had the courage)

He loves the flashing brilliance of Misaki’s hair, each copper-wire strand glinting warm gold in the sunlight. He loves the vibrant reds and oranges of it, the way light sets Misaki aflame, each and every strand blazing with its own inner fire.

He loves the way it sits, tufting up rebelliously, each curving spike catching golden rays and stealing their colour for their own. It takes on the colour of grain, a thousand stalks of aureate wheat under sun, a wealth of colour. Sunbeams glisten in every lock, bronze shadows and muted auburns melding into cinnamon and honey gold highlights.

Misaki is as radiant as the dawn, the sun-kissed tips of red locks floating around his face as he smiles, casting a rose-red glow into the grey world around him. He is the burning sun, aureate flaming crown and crimson-shades flaring under natural light, revealing the thousands of disparate red-orange shades that combine somehow to form a cohesive whole. The hue of his hair is not something that can be described in words, cut and measured into carefully labelled boxes. It is brighter than the gold of sunflowers under the midday sun, more passionate than the deep crimson life that runs through branching veins beneath thin skin, more ethereal than the flickering, fickle light of an ever-changing flame, encompassing all colours in its breadth. 

Misaki is a phoenix, brightly shining, red and gold feathering down over sharp amber eyes, casting faint shadows on delicate cheekbones. The blazing hue suggests intense heat, but he knows that Misaki's hair can't burn anything, won't burn him. The swirl of mesmerizing iridescent colour flares its brilliance with every motion, flickering shadows playfully dancing amid sunlit copper-bronze locks. The orange halo of yellow-tinged flame twists and wanders with the sun, travelling over blazing hills and dimmed burgundy plains, rising up over brass-bright peaks and sinking below to bluer-brown valleys where light refuses to enter. 

Misaki is a tapestry, autumnal silken strands weaving themselves into twists of flame and flaring sunlight. The gold glint of one strand twines through burgundy and auburn as well as amber and proud apricot orange. There is no order, only beautiful chaos, the birth and death of a star in thousand blinding crimson shades and fiery glow. 

Misaki is a gorgeous work of art, a thing to be stolen and secreted away. His hair is a canvas, each strand its own band bursting with colour. As if painted with watercolours, red and gold dissolve into one another deliciously, a sunset in stillness, a bonfire in motion. Thick, bold brushstrokes form Misaki’s forever unruly locks, each one painstakingly detailed with the careful, graceful sweep of smooth, perfectly full lines and the slinking, twisting spread of auburn and chocolate shadows. Gilt strands glint in every softly spiking lock, blooming softly in every bright-gleaming highlight, glowing and shimmering enticingly.

He loves Misaki’s hair the way he loves Misaki, with every drop of blood in his body, every piece of red dripping tissue within his beating heart, with every breath of precious air that gives life. He loves him with every thought that passes through his mind, the electricity jumping from neuron to nerve, with every memory stored within him and every bit of raw human emotion he contains. 

He wishes he had the courage to run his hands through it, feel the silk-smooth tangerines and mahoganies, savour the texture of soft spikes in russet tones. 

He wishes he had the courage to say “I love you”, each word enunciated clearly, leaping off his tongue, free from bitten lips and repressed thoughts. He wishes Misaki would look at him the same way he does, with his soul in his eyes, like he’s the only one who matters. He wishes he could speak up, but his heart is bleeding red-rust salt into his mouth, hot liquid dripping from it, running into his throat, choking him with every breath he takes.

In the end, he’s just a coward after all.


End file.
